THE PERFECT KILL (33 page)

“Exactly.”

Khaled had taken out a notebook and pen. “I will need to know your movements over the coming days,” he said to his father and made his first note, saying, “Tomorrow you go to the camp at what time?”

“What time do the fighters leave?” Jibril asked Jihad.

“An hour after sunset,” his son replied.

“Then I will arrive at the camp an hour before sunset,” Jibril stated.

Khaled made a note and then looked up again. Jibril waved a hand at him and said testily, “I will give you details of my further movements tomorrow.”

Dalkamouni entered the conversation.

“You will attend the ceremony for the State of Palestine next Friday?”

“Of course,” Jibril answered. “It could not be otherwise.”

Creasy and Michael were back in their sleeping compartment in the Pullman carriage. Michael was in the top bunk. He found it difficult to sleep.

“Are you awake?” he called softly.

Creasy’s voice floated up from the bottom bunk.

“Yes. What’s the matter?”

“I just can’t sleep.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Creasy answered. “As for me, I sleep better on a train than anywhere else.”

They swayed along in silence, then Michael said, “I guess you’ve worked out a way to get onto the roof of the building?”

“Of course.”

“And how to get off it?…after the hit?”

“One side of the building backs onto a narrow alley. It’s not used much. We take ropes with us and after we make the hit we rappel down…George Zammit told me you do it well.”

Creasy heard Michael’s soft laugh. The young man said, “There’s going to be a zillion security men around. How do we get into Damascus in the first place?”

“I go in by sea. From Cyprus to Lattakia. You go in on a guided package tour from Turkey. You’re a student of archaeology. Syria is an archaeologists’ paradise. Your tour ends up in Damascus, then you’ll leave it and meet me in the hole.”

Another silence, then Michael asked, “What are we going to be doing in Paris?”

“Meeting up with Corkscrew Two. He’ll give us an update on Damascus, passports and papers and some bullets.”

“Bullets?”

“Yes. Very special bullets. Now go to sleep.”

They were sitting in the lounge of a suite in the Hotel Meurice in Paris. Corkscrew Two had given them their passports, tickets and a typed itinerary for both of them. He had also handed Creasy a small wooden box measuring three inches by three.

Creasy had opened it. Nestling in the box were four silver-tipped bullets, each with a cross carved into the tip.

As Creasy studied them, Corkscrew Two had said, “They are more potent the sooner they are used.”

Michael had looked on puzzled.

“What are they?” he had asked.

“They are bullets,” Creasy answered succinctly. “Special bullets for Jibril. I will explain later.”

“How sure are you about the distance?” Michael asked Creasy.

“It’s approximate,” Creasy answered. “But beforehand I’ll pace it out. Also the downside angle. Then we’ll calibrate the sights on the rifles.”

Michael turned to look at Creasy and said with a grin, “Dunga Justo Basne.”

Creasy grinned back but he was disconcerted. During the discussion Michael had very much asserted himself. He was no longer a junior lieutenant but very much a partner. It continued so.

“Will we have a wind gauge up there?” Michael asked.

Corkscrew Two nodded. “Yes. A Jasker Three. Extremely accurate.”

Michael’s head was lowered in thought, his mind encompassing the words of Rambahadur Rai. Finally, he looked up at Creasy and asked, “The idea is to use silencers?”

“That’s the optimum situation,” Creasy answered gruffly.

Michael thought some more and stated, “If there’s a crosswind factor of more than five knots, the silencers have to come off. At five hundred metres the drift will be too much with silencers. The suppression factor is too great.”

Creasy glanced at Corkscrew Two who smiled again and remarked, “He seems to know it all.”

Creasy smiled back and said, “He’s a smart-ass young prick, but in this case he’s right.”

Corkscrew left at eight in the evening with the two laconic words, “Good luck.”

Michael was to catch a flight to Ankara at midnight.

Creasy took him to the airport and they had a final dinner at the Maxim’s branch looking out over the runway and the taxiing aircraft. It was a mostly silent meal, both men lost in their thoughts. They had a dozen oysters each, followed by noisette of lamb. Creasy ordered a bottle of La Croix Pomerol ‘61. As the sommelier decanted and poured the wine, Creasy said to Michael, “This wine is a gift from a man called Jim Grainger.”

Michael looked up with a query in his eyes.

“He’s a friend,” Creasy explained. “A very good friend. A very powerful man in America.”

“Why would he buy us such a wine?” Michael asked.

“His wife was on Pan Am 103,” Creasy answered. “He knows what we are doing. He has supported us all the way through. When it’s over, you will meet him.” For a reason he could not understand, Creasy added, “His wife’s name was Harriot. They had no children.”

Creasy did not accompany Michael to the departure lounge. They said goodbye outside the entrance of the restaurant. They hugged each other and then Creasy laid his right hand against Michael’s left cheek, kissed him hard on the corner of his mouth and walked away.

Michael woke early after a restful sleep, despite the humidity and constant buzzing of mosquitoes in the room. He dressed and fixed the linen scarf, essential in the heat, around his head.

The previous afternoon the tour bus had crossed the Turkish border into Syria and arrived a couple of dusty hours later at the Baron Hotel on the outskirts of Aleppo.

The group of young archaeology students from the Sorbonne and various universities around Paris congregated in the foyer of the hotel, and once more Michael caught the gaze of the young French girl on the tour. He had noticed her immediately they had left Paris and determined to get to know her before the end of the tour.

While their Syrian tour guide ran through the itinerary, Michael reflected on his mission. These next few days would be his last to relax and enjoy himself as the possibility of death loomed closer.

The guide issued maps of the city on the bus, as they drove through the tree-lined streets, past the parks and high-class restaurants.

They alighted at the Citadel and arranged to meet back in the early afternoon to continue their tour. Until then, they could sightsee at their leisure.

Michael grabbed his chance as the auburn-haired French girl turned to leave the group.

“You know it’s not wise for a pretty European girl to walk unaccompanied through these streets.”

She seemed taken aback but Michael knew she was pleased he had approached her. Within minutes they were chatting.

Her name was Natalie.

They wandered off, already at ease in each other’s company.

The stalls of the vast covered market were adorned with everything imaginable from food to perfumes and gold and silver jewellery. The aroma of cardamom and cloves swirled around from various spice stalls and pistachio shells crunched under their feet as they walked. The cries of hawkers and barrow pushers filled the morning air.

Michael watched bemused as Natalie swept from one stall to another with perfect grace, her white linen, sleeveless dress flowing behind her. Her laughter echoed around the souk as she admired the beautiful jewellery and colourful silks and cottons. He was drawn in by her flamboyance and his laughter echoed with hers long into the afternoon.

The following day they journeyed to the Crac des Chevaliers, via the coast of Lattakia, through the orchards and high cypress hedges. The eight-hundred-year-old castle of the knights was one of Syria’s prime attractions and Michael relished the fact that he knew more about it than their guide.

“You make it so much more interesting, Michael. I’m starting to enjoy this sightseeing,” Natalie remarked.

Three airforce jets zoomed low overhead. A reminder that Lebanon was only a few kilometres away. They walked, hand in hand, to the upper floor of the castle to the Tower of the Daughter of the King, from where they could see the snowcapped peak of Kornet as Saouda in the Lebanon to the south and the valley of Nahr al-Kabir to the east.

Michael was so preoccupied that the impending operation faded temporarily to the back of his mind. All too soon, they were on the bus on their way back to Damascus.

As he lay in his hotel room that night, contemplating the day’s events, he hardly heard the door open and close. He saw Natalie coming towards him, two beers in her hand.

“I’m exhausted from all the walking today and since you said you weren’t going out, I brought you some refreshment.”

She moved forward and sat on the bed.

Suddenly, Michael was on his guard. He sat up, his mind racing with suspicion. For the first time he felt himself turning away from an almost certain romantic involvement. He was attracted to the girl but could only imagine that she was an agent and might know of his plan. His mind turned to Creasy and the anger and hate and reasons that spurred him on his way. He thought of Leonie and of the last supper they had had at Sammy’s. She was the only woman who had ever loved him like a mother and treated him like her own son. Jibril had shattered his dream and now Michael would shatter his life.

He looked at Natalie. No emotion showed in his face or in his eyes.

“You can’t stay,” he said coldly. “My tour has come to an end and you won’t see me again. Believe me, I’ve had a good time but don’t ask me any questions.”

He stood, walked to the door and gestured for her to leave.

Her expression turned from puzzlement to anger.

“You’re probably gay,” she snarled and stalked out.

The ferry from Cyprus docked in Lattakia in the early afternoon. The Syrian Immigration and Customs officials came aboard with the usual bureaucracy; it was two hours before Creasy carried his canvas bag down the gangway. He had enjoyed his overnight journey. The food had been passable and there had been a small casino on board, run by some young Londoners. Over a couple of hours, he had won three hundred pounds. Before joining the ship, he had disguised himself by dyeing his hair black and adding a moustache.

He took a taxi to the souk and then walked three hundred metres to the hole. It was a one-bedroomed apartment on the third floor of a modern five-storey building. In the small kitchen he opened the cupboard doors above the sink and lifted out tins of food. Then he pulled open the wooden partition at the back of the cupboard. In a recess behind was the machinery. He took the weapons out and checked them carefully, then put them back and replaced the tins of food.

Half an hour later, he was boarding an air-conditioned Karnak bus to Damascus. He arrived just after ten o’clock and before going to the hole, recced the building on El Malek. He stood on the curve of the avenue about two hundred metres from where it joined Souq Saroujah Street. It was a dilapidated ten-storey office building with a large restaurant on the ground floor, which had tables on the pavement. He sat at an empty table and ordered a coffee. He estimated the height of the building. Later he would buy the rope they would use to abseil down it. The restaurant and the street outside were still busy. Pedestrians were interspersed with men in uniform, soldiers and police. Across the street was a row of smart shops selling everything from appliances to clothes. Traffic on the street was heavy.

He finished his coffee and walked the few hundred metres to the hole near the souk.

It was also a one-bedroomed apartment, on the second floor of an old building. First he pulled aside a chest of drawers in the bedroom and checked the machinery in the recess behind.

Satisfied, he went into the kitchen, opened a can of Irish stew, heated it in a saucepan and ate, while his mind ranged over the coming days. If everything had gone to plan, Michael would be ringing the doorbell at nine o’clock the next morning.

Michael was five minutes late. As instructed he brought eggs, bread and milk, a fresh chicken, potatoes, carrots, half a kilo of sirloin steak and a cabbage. He also had two bottles of Lebanese claret, which were not included in his instructions. Creasy did not complain. After dumping the supplies on the table, the two men embraced, then they put away the food, took out all the machinery and double-checked it. Michael handled the sniper rifle as though it were a woman, holding it and caressing it, snuggling the butt against his shoulder, laying his cheek against the black stock.

Creasy watched him and murmured, “It’s a big distance.” Slowly, Michael lowered the weapon onto the bed, smiled grimly and said, “I won’t miss…believe me, Creasy. I won’t miss.”

For lunch, they roasted the chicken and opened one of the bottles of wine.

During the meal, Creasy questioned the young man about his trip. About the other people who were on it. Michael explained about the French girl and how he had turned her out of his room the night before.

Creasy was pleased and it showed in his face. He raised his glass and said, “Let’s leave all that until it’s over. If we get out of this country alive, we’ll go to Cyprus and have a holiday.”

“How do you rate the chances?” Michael asked soberly.

“Fifty-fifty,” Creasy answered flatly. “I call those good odds.”

After lunch, they left the apartment separately and went their different ways, Creasy to Martyrs’ Square and Michael to take a look at the building on El Malek.

At Martyrs’ Square Creasy watched, as workers erected the dais where the review would take place. He stood in line with it and the building on the corner of El Malek. He could see the corner of the roof. It looked a very long way away. Using his forefinger, he roughly calculated the angle from the top of the building to the dais. He estimated between twenty and twenty-five degrees. It would be important when they calibrated the rifle sights.

At that moment, Michael was in the restaurant on the ground floor of the building. He finished his coffee and walked casually into the foyer of the building itself. There was an old wooden desk near the entrance, with an old door-keeper sitting behind it.